A SOLDIER, filled with Bourbon, lay puling in the street,
From battle-field es-ca-ped, with swiftly running feet;
He’d fallen from too much “strychnine,” and drowned all gallant schemes,
And got as far as possible from Richmun on the Jeems!

And one there lay beside him–his comrade in the flight;
They had been boon companions, and frequently got tight;
And side by side they lay there, indulging maudlin dreams,
Far from the Libby Prison and Richmun on the Jeems!

One said: “Old feller, tell me, what think you of this war,
Made by the boastin’ rebels, our prosperous peace to mar?
Are Lee and Stonewall Jackson such thunderation teams,
As to keep us out of Richmun, ole Richmun on the Jeems?

“Say, do you think that Hooker–they call him ‘Fightin’ Joe’–
Who ‘for the war committee run down McClellan so,–
Will he cross the Rappyhannick, and carry out his schemes,
And take us down to Richmun, upon the River Jeems?

“Why, when I left old Kaintuck, just eighteen months ago,
My mam and sister Ruby both said I shouldn’t go;
But I ax’d ‘em both, and Susan, to think of me in dreams,–
For I’se bound to go to Richmun, old Richmun on the Jeems!

“You know, through tribulation, we marched on, night and day,
Through woods, and mud, and dusty roads, and fightin’ in the fray;
By smoke-houses and chicken-coops, and where the b’iler steems,
Which cooked our hard-earned rations tow’rd Richmun on the Jeems.

“And now we’re going homeward–me and the other scamp–
Yet far from old Kentucky we are obleeged to tramp;
And him who’s out of postage stamps, there’s nobody esteems,
E’en though he’s been in Richmun, and seed the River Jeems!

“To hell with old Phiginny, and all her sacred sile!
She’s made a heap of trouble, and kept it up awhile;
And if she’s helped herself right much, ’tis like to them sunbeams
The niggers squeeze from cucumbers, in Richmon on the Jeems!”

And then his boon companion convulsively turned o’er,
And, grunting an affirmative, straightway began to snore,
Oblivious to war’s alarms or love’s delightful themes,
Or to the fact that Richmun still stands upon the Jeems!

Grow on, thou “sour-apple-tree,” where Jeffy is to hang!
Rejoice, ye running contrabands, for this is your chebang:
No more you’l stem tobacco, thresh wheat, or drive the teams
Of rebels round the city–old Richmun on the Jeems!